Seasick
by Flutterbank
Summary: The closer she gets to understanding him, the further she finds herself from the truth. Daenerys is strong, but is she strong enough to resist what she feels for Jon Snow? (Set during and after S7 ep 7)
1. Chapter 1

**Just a fic that's going to focus on the before and after of the infamous Jonerys boat scene. Reviews are appreciated, since this is my first foray into writing GOT fics. More chapters to come :)**

-x-

The journey to White Harbor would be long. This was the first warning (of many) that Jorah had for Daenerys as she supervised the loading of the provisions, and though she pretended to be preoccupied in watching Davos drag crate after crate of food onto the boat, she could still see his worry (and disapproval) from the corner of her eye.

"You are not a fan of the water," he stated, as if this was something she wasn't already aware of.

"I know."

"You'd make up a lot of time flying there."

"Jorah."

"And if we time it right, we could arrange for you to ride the last leg of the journey with the Dothraki. I've already spoken to Grey Worm, and if you're intent on riding in as a combined unit, he could meet you with a horse to transfer over from Drogon."

"Jorah."

"Jon Snow means well, but he's thinking of his people, whereas you need to be thinking about yourself."

" _Jorah."_ She closed her eyes as she swallowed a shaky breath. Sometimes, when she looked at his face, she remembered where it all began, how it all began, what they'd endured along the way. She remembered the expression he wore as she stepped out of the flames, three baby dragons clinging to her unburnt skin, and though the years had passed, that expression had barely waivered. He looked older now, much older than he was, but he still wore that same expression; of awe, of surprise, of love.

She knew that same love got in the way sometimes,and though she didn't take his loyalty for granted, it often proved a hindrance for both of them. No matter the differences they may have shared, Dany cared a lot about him too, and she didn't want to hurt him as much as he wanted to protect her from harm.

Unfortunately, the battle to be the new ruler of the seven kingdoms wasn't exactly harm-free.

"My apologies, Khaleesi." He bowed his head, his cheeks tinted pink. "I thought I was looking out for you."

Dany placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it, ever so gently, smiling at the feeling of soft skin under her touch. "I know, Jorah, as I know you are always looking out for me. This is how it needs to be." She wrinkled her nose. "Though you're right; I'm definitely not a fan of the water. Must be the dragon in me." She closed the distance between them with a goodbye embrace, and though Jorah's arms lingered for longer than appropriate, she breathed in his familiar scent, lingering herself.

"I don't like leaving you," he admitted, after finally breaking away. He watched Tyrion with narrowed eyes, but she found herself looking to Jon, who was helping Davos with the biggest of the loads.

Always wearing that fur pelt; how would he fair in some of the more exotic locations she'd experienced?

"I know that too, but I'd feel better knowing that you're there to support Grey Worm. I trust him, of course, but you need to be the firm hand if anyone decides to take a detour. I hear there are many brothels in Westeros."

The two shared a grin, and she could see in his eyes that he had accepted his fate, despite his better judgement (and for just a second, hers). There was little room on the modest sized boat, and though she would have liked everyone to stay together, she needed to set some firm boundaries. With Jorah back in her company, it was time to ensure everyone had a purpose; he couldn't be simply her bodyguard any longer.

"Missandei?"

Daenerys sniffed. "She is to travel with me, though you'd have thought I'd promised to throw her overboard."

Jorah nodded knowingly in response. "Grey Worm."

"Is it _that_ obvious?" She huffed a little. Clearly she needed to work on her powers of deduction if Jorah had seen the pairing easier than she had.

"I've been around quite a bit longer than you, Khaleesi, and I've seen my fair share of romances over the years. I hope they can be happy together."

"Romance and happiness… I don't know if I believe in those concepts anymore." She found herself staring at Jon, watching as he chuckled at something Tyrion had said (no doubt too witty and clever for the rest of them). It occurred to her that she had yet to see him laugh, _properly_ laugh, or smile from ear to ear as if he didn't have the world on his shoulders. He looked at her, then, and though she felt like she'd been caught out, she held her ground until he looked away, his face a little warmer than before.

"You are too young to have such a cynical head on your shoulders. When you win this war, why survive unless it is for happiness? For people to fall in love with life again?" Jorah shook his head. "There is hope yet, if you can remember how to hope."

As they said their goodbyes and Tyrion made Davos check their itinerary for a third time, she wondered if she could remember how to do anything other than mourn for the death of her child, and dwell on a future filled with the dead.

-x-

"It's not that I'm _frightened_ of the water," she groaned, exasperated, clutching her goblet of wine as she tried her best not to be completely furious. Davos sat beside her with what she assumed to be a fatherly look on his face, and she made a mental note to chastise Jorah when she saw him again. "I just feel much safer on the back of a horse or a dragon because they're a lot less… wet."

Jon, who was sat at the other end of the table and apparently enthralled in conversation with Varys, choked on his drink, sending droplets of wine across the table.

"Sorry," he muttered, dabbing at the mess with the sleeve of his robe.

"It's okay to be frightened of the sea, Your Grace, it's a powerful and dangerous thing. Me and me family were introduced to it early on, pretty much thrown in when I could walk, and we learnt how to respect it." Davos spluttered a bit as Dany raised an eyebrow. "Not that I'm saying that you don't respect it, of course, but even great leaders have their fears, and there's no shame in that." He cleared his throat. "I'm digging meself even deeper in this hole, but, er, just know that if you need anything, we're all here for you."

"And I appreciate that, Ser Davos, I do. I fear Ser Jorah is worried I'm going to fall over the side of the boat and drown before we get to the North."

"If that were to happen, Your Grace, don't think too harshly of me if I don't jump in to your rescue." Tyrion shrugged, draining his cup in one. "I'm not exactly built to be a strong swimmer."

"Aye, I would have suggested Jon, but that fur around his neck would probably sink him to the bottom," said Davos in a mock whisper, and a murmured laugh travelled around the small table. Dany noted, with interest, that Jon didn't laugh. Instead, as she'd grown accustomed to, he seemed to take the scenario a little too seriously, and his face became burdened with worry. What would he brood about when the war was finally won?

"Relax, Jon; I've survived this long." She offered him a smile that wasn't returned, and promptly ignored the slight sting of rejection.

Varys stood, bowing his head just enough, his hands hidden in his robes (she'd half convinced herself that he was hiding something in those sleeves). "Your Grace, if you could excuse me, I'm ready to call it a night."

"Of course, Lord Varys, there's no need to ask for my permission."

Like that, a motion swept around the room, until even Missandei was making her excuses to leave. It was late, and they had a long journey to go, but Dany couldn't help but feel disappointed in their eagerness to retire. When she looked at them all, the people who had pledged themselves to her, she saw individuals rather than a team, rather than a _council_ , and she'd hoped they'd bond over the journey to the North.

Evidently not.

"Are you not tired, Your Grace?"

Snapping out of her temporary self-pity, she jumped to her senses when she noticed that Jon had remained in his seat, cup still held in his hand.

"I suppose not. I'm surprised; I thought you'd be the first one to leave."

He laughed, though there was no humour in his voice, and not for the first time, she found herself frustrated that she couldn't read him.

Jorah, he was simple. He wanted her, and though he knew he couldn't have her, he didn't let his affection hold him back from serving her. Tyrion, he was smart. He knew when to appease her and when to challenge her, and even when they disagreed (which she'd noted was happening more and more these days), he knew when to bite his tongue and let her get on with it. Varys, even, she could just about predict, though she seemed to hear his opinions once they'd been directed at her Hand. Though she suspected they'd never be particularly close, she knew that Varys wanted what was best for Westeros, and for now, it seemed he'd deemed her worthy of that title.

Jon, however, was unlike anyone she'd met before, and it vexed her more than it should have. On the surface, he should have been the easiest of them all to come to terms with. From stories that Viserys used to tell, through to experiences Jorah had undergone and relayed, Daenerys knew that the people of the North were straight talking and straight thinking. She'd even been witness to this herself, and in that idiotic moment when Jon pledged his allegiance to her cause in front of Cersei Lannister, she thought she'd understood; Northerners didn't play games.

And yet, she seemed to understand him a little more and a little less with every day that passed. Sometimes his admiration for her was written all over his face like a puppy, and yet sometimes, as appeared to be the case as they looked at each other over a table, he seemed uninterested, bored, like he had other places to be.

With other people? She couldn't help wondering if his heart was elsewhere, dwelling in a place that didn't concern her, and she felt her anger bubble at the surface.

 _Temper, Dany, temper,_ Viserys would chide, _no man is going to want an uncontrollable wench who can't get a handle on her anger._

"I know you must think me miserable, but sometimes it's difficult to switch off." Jon swilled his wine around in his cup, tilting his head to watch the liquid pool in front of him. "Watching everyone talk, drink, have fun, it reminds me of simpler times." He looked up, his brow furrowed, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't want to bore you with nostalgia."

She wanted to smooth out his forehead with her fingers, to tell him to stop overthinking everything. Instead, she ran a finger down her goblet to catch a trailing drop of wine."Please," she leaned forward, shaking her head in unison as her fingers close around her cup, "you could not bore me with stories of family. I have little in the way of fond memories, and I could do with the distraction myself."

It was at this point that she glimpsed it, a smile unbidden by sadness, responsibility, and fear; it was a smile of better things, of love, and for whatever the reason, her heart seemed to skip a beat in response. Though she'd never wished for a different life, for her all her experiences had led her here, to Westeros, she couldn't help but wonder how different things would have been if her father were still alive, if Rhaegar had been the brother giving her advice; if she'd had a real _family._

"Very well. If you find yourself tired, tell me; I don't want to be sentenced to death for making my Queen fall asleep with my stories."

 _My Queen._ A phrase spoken countless times, but it sounded foreign coming from his tongue.

Foreign, but _welcome_.

"I think a lot about the last proper meal I shared with my family," he began, and Dany couldn't help but be drawn in by the tone of his voice, the relaxed posture, the warmth and longing his voice exuded. She told herself it was down to never having that family experience, not because it was Jon that was playing narrator. "It doesn't stick out in importance because we always ate together, so long as Father wasn't out hunting with Jory. Besides, usually the feast would end in either Arya or Bran being sent outside for throwing food at Sansa, but sometimes, now and again, we'd all just eat, drink, and be thankful that we had each other." He smiled, a proper, heartfelt smile, and Dany smiled back, an intruder in his memories. "I guess it was special, the last time, because I can remember being genuinely happy. And Uncle Benjen was there, and…" He trailed off and shut down. His eyes stopped shining, his grin faded, and his shoulders seemed to collapse in on themselves, just for a second, before he straightened up and coughed, embarrassed by his emotional slip. "I know none of us could ever have known that day, but out of it all, I can't stop thinking about what I should have said to my father, if I'd known that was the last time I'd see him alive."

Silence permeated the air for a moment, and Daenerys felt the need to gulp down the lump in her throat. "What would you have said?"

He laughed, but it wasn't the kind of laugh she wanted to hear from him. It was cold, hollow, pained, and she wished to never hear it again. "The stupid thing is, I don't know. I get as far as walking up to him, looking him up and down to remember his face, his height, his stance, his… _Father-ness_ , and the words get caught before they leave my mouth. I know what I'd like to ask him now, though."

"What?"

"Am I doing the right thing, staying true to myself?" Jon gazed out of the small window, out into the darkness and the silent swaying of the waves. "I don't regret saying what I said to Cersei, I don't for a second, because that's who I am. My father raised me to be honest, to do what I think is right, but at the same time, I get that they're all right too." He waved a hand towards the door, out where the rest of her council slept. "Honour and honesty got my father killed. If this is all a game, I don't think I know the rules, or how it should be played." He blanched. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. You have your own concerns to deal with, so I'm sure the last thing you need is me rambling on."

"Don't apologise, it's nice." Instantly, Dany bit her lip and internally cursed herself. "Not _nice_ , that was poor, I mean…" She sat up a little taller in her seat. "I'm glad you feel like you can confide in me. Not everyone feels brave enough to do so."

"Maybe I just don't know my place; I'm not used to bending the knee."

It took her a minute to realise he was joking with her, and she could do little to hide her grin because Jon Snow had a sense of _humour_ ; who would have thought it?

"Don't worry, I'll get you trained soon enough."

She could see the sudden glint in his eye, and wondered if he'd accepted that challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the feedback so far! It means a lot. If you're liking this, let me know.**

"Don't worry, I'll get you trained soon enough."

Clearing his throat and pushing back his chair, Jon stood up slowly, more than tempted to stay with Daenerys for as long as she'd have him. "Well, Your Grace, it'd be rude to keep you up all night." A quirked eyebrow from the woman in question made him look down at his feet; he really needed to get better at addressing royalty, especially when said royalty was on good terms with fully grown dragons.

 _Only two, thanks to you._

Ignoring his guilt (he'd save that for later when he was tucked up in bed with nothing else to dwell on), he made a move to bow, and only thought better of it halfway down, resulting in an awkward shoulder twitch that he wasn't sure resembled anything.

"Er- Goodnight."

He tried to pretend that she wasn't smirking at his half bow, half spasm, and without looking back, Jon swept out of the room, wincing at his incompetence.

He was _fucked,_ to put it lightly. Once in the safety of his own quarters (which consisted of a modest size bed, a chamber pot, and a small pile of clothes), Jon held his head in his hands with an inaudible groan. He was totally fucked. Whatever mission he'd set out on all those months ago was getting lost in a haze of wanting _her_. What didn't help was how obvious he was coming across, and he suspected that everyone around him could see just how much of a fool he was acting.

It's not as if he'd ever expected to turn up to Dragonstone and fall in love with the woman he'd needed as an ally, but from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her, he'd been unable to think of little else.

She was fearless. She commanded a room like no one he'd ever seen, and from the way her advisors, companions, _friends_ looked at her, they felt the same. They respected her, trusted her, believed in her, and Jon soon found that he was doing all of the above.

As much as he hated to admit it to himself, her looks were just as much to blame. Back when he was a boy, he'd heard tales of Queen Cersei Lannister, the most beautiful woman in Westeros, and he remembered watching her ride into Winterfell, the King by her side, Prince Joffrey bringing up the rear. Robb had dug his elbow into his ribs, had whispered something crude under his breath, and they'd both laughed, but Jon hadn't really understood it. She was pretty, sure, but so was the baker's daughter who sometimes slipped him a slightly burnt scone when she was feeling generous.

Daenerys _was_ beautiful. Beauty seemed to radiate from her, only aided by her own self confidence, and Jon couldn't stop the almost primal thoughts that crept into his mind whenever he saw her. When she had her disagreements with Tyrion, Jon thought about unravelling the delicate braids in her hair, of running his fingers through them until they fell to her shoulders, brushing against bare skin. When she shared a secret smile with Missandei, he thought about coaxing a similar smile from her with soft words of want, hidden away in a secret corner of Dragonstone. When she whispered in Valyrian to Drogon, her back to the rest of the world, he thought about taking her roughly from behind, and he'd have to excuse himself, all but running to hide his obvious attraction to her.

It was pathetic. As far as his people knew, he was still the King in the North, and he had more important issues at hand than how much he wanted to fuck the dragon queen. Even with the aid of the southern armies, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that they were sailing to their doom. White Walkers, the Night King, a potential future battle with the Lannisters; it should have been enough to keep him occupied.

And yet, as he removed his furs and ran a damp rag against his face, the image in his head was of Daenerys, not the dead. No matter how hard he pretended to be disinterested, he knew it was only a matter of time until he made a fool of himself, at which point, no doubt, she'd reject him.

At the end of the day, who was he to offer her anything? He was a bastard, given various titles that he'd never really wanted (or deserved). No matter how intense his feelings were for her, he had to remind himself that she wasn't likely to return them.

He looked at his bed, which was no doubt much comfier than anything he'd had to sleep on at Castle Black, but he had no intention of sleeping. How could he? He'd been sitting in a room with just Daenerys Targaryen, telling her stories about his family, and not only had she listened, she'd done so with an expression on her face that suggested she'd been _interested_. In him, in Winterfell, in a family he missed like a lost limb. He scowled and banged his head against the wall behind him. She'd been interested, and he'd barely shared a thing, embarrassed to show her how much it still hurt.

No doubt she was still awake; they'd only parted ways less than half an hour since. Lips pressed in a thin line as he weighed up his options, Jon stood to attention, smoothed down his hair, and headed back towards her room. She hadn't dismissed him, had she? He'd excused himself without her help, so maybe, if he tried a little harder, he could keep the conversation going, paint a better picture if she was intent on learning more about him.

He lingered outside her door, the Targaryen sigil adorning the wood to remind him who he was about to disturb, and took a deep breath. He had no real idea what he was doing. He knew what he wanted to do, he had many many ideas of what he wanted to do to her, but he was bound by his duty to his people.

 _I'm here for dragon glass and her armies._

He was there because he was in love with her.

He knocked, the sound of wood seeming to echo through his skull, louder than it should have been, and waited, counting the seconds down in his head.

He half expected her not to answer.

When the door opened, he half expected her to close it again.

But there she was, the same expression he was wearing mirrored back on her face. He forgot all about telling her family stories, about the promises he'd made to his people, his sister. He had been Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, a voluntary addition to the Wall to help the crows in black. He had been Jon Snow, Lord Commander, a title he hadn't asked for, but that he'd done his best to uphold. He had been Jon Snow, resurrected, taking a knife to the heart for wanting to protect his people, to make a difference. He had been Jon Snow, King in the North, once again in a position of power that was thrust upon him by those who didn't want it themselves. That was why he was here, again, living his life to better the lives of others.

For one night, he was just Jon, wanting to feel the lips of Daenerys against his own.

If she'd have him.

Her arm seemed to block the doorway for what felt like an eternity, until she dropped it, watching him wordlessly, almost challenging him to take control. And so he did. Closing the door behind him, watching her eyes, unreadable, guarded, he took one step towards her, his gaze dropping to her lips, both still silent apart from the sound of ragged breaths (his or hers, he couldn't tell).

He knew he should ask permission; she was his queen.

Jon closed the gap between them, crushing his mouth to hers with a frantic, needy groan. It wasn't what he'd imagined their first kiss to be like, but once her arms began to snake around his neck, he couldn't think straight, couldn't even remember why they hadn't been doing this sooner.

She pulled free, for just a second, her lower lip quivering, to take his hand. She squeezed his fingers, interlinking them, and pulled him over to her bed.

For one night, he was just Jon.

-x-

Names that were moaned in desperation aside, the first words spoken were Daenerys's, though Jon had no idea how much time had passed. He lay beside her, completely naked, his body curved around hers, adapting to the shape of her spine, one hand tracing lazy shapes on her arm.

"Why did you come?" she asked, only meeting his gaze when she got no answer. Looking up at him, she rolled her eyes with a snort, gently elbowing him in the stomach. "I mean, Jon Snow, why did you come _to my room?_ You were quick to disappear and leave me not so long ago."

Jon grinned, and though it seemed that her walls were back up, he buried his face in her hair and inhaled (it amazed him that this was the first time he'd seen her looking so… unkempt). "I _came_ , Your Grace, to tell you about an amazing girl I know." He lifted his head, watching as she raised an eyebrow in approval. "My little sister, Arya."

The eyebrow fell, along with her face. "And instead, you decided to take what wasn't yours?" She made a movement to try and push him away, but now that he was here, he was going to put up a fight.

Jon lowered his head to her neck, and as she wriggled against him, he pressed his lips to her skin, lingering there until she froze in his embrace. "I came because I wanted an excuse to see you," he whispered, his breath tickling her until she shuddered, "and I figured that you actually…"

She gulped, shifting so they were face to face. "I actually what?"

His eyes wrinkled. "Care about me."

Pardoning the pun, Jon knew he was playing with fire. He'd heard stories, as much as he hadn't wanted to, about a sell sword named Daario, and how he used to 'service' the queen when she saw fit. He'd heard all about how tall and handsome this man had been, how charismatic and full of himself he was, and how none of that had been enough to avoid being discarded when Daenerys had seen fit. Had he loved her? Jon hadn't stuck around to hear that part. Had she loved him? He didn't want to know the answer to that either.

The point was, it seemed that this Daario had laid a much better claim to winning her heart than he had, and yet here Jon was, praying to the old gods and the new that the woman beside him wasn't planning on getting rid of him any time soon.

She studied his face in great detail. One of her hands rested against his cheek, all but stroking him, her eyes focused on his, looking back and forth at the reflection she saw there. "I do care, Jon Snow. I just didn't realise how much until now." She dropped her hand, though found a place on his hip to rest it instead, fingers trailing a long forgotten scar. "You give very little away; did you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I consider myself a great judge of character, and yet I had no idea that you were besotted with me."

Jon laughed, his full body shaking, until Daenerys was laughing along with him. He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, sweeping away the loose hairs from her frazzled braids, and bit his lip in thought. "Besotted? I suppose that's one way to put it. You really didn't know?" When she shook her head, he laughed again. "I tried my best to hide it, if I'm being honest, but I think everyone else knew how I felt. I received a lot of disappointed looks from your Ser Jorah."

At that, Daenerys rolled her eyes and sighed melodramatically. "Here we go again. It seems, where romantic feelings are involved, my judgement is severely compromised."

"You know about Tyrion and Missandei though, don't you?"

Nose wrinkled in disgust, she stared at Jon, eyes blazing. In any other setting, he knew that he'd be frightened to be on the end of her wrath, but naked beside him? He could handle it.

"Please tell me you are joking."

"It's been going on for _months_ apparently, I can't believe you couldn't see it."

She quieted him with a slap to the chest and a kiss on the lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Not for the first time (with no guarantees it would be the last), Daenerys woke in a cold sweat, a clammy numbness fogging her cheeks. It was dark out; the wind was still howling and the boat was still sailing. Counting to five, she took heavy, shuddering breaths until the panic had subsided, and once her chest was no longer heaving, she took a moment to just _be_.

These nightmares were becoming an unwelcome constant, and yet for all the pain they caused her, they reminded her that she _should_ be feeling pain.

The dreams started out differently each time. Some were mundane; rehashing of old conversations, of councils spent discussing rations and wealth and soldiers. Some were nonsensical, focused on Grey Worm in one of her dresses, of Varys learning to dance with one of her Dothraki riders. Some were nothing, with no real beginning, though they always had the same end.

The death of Viserion.

Though Dany knew it was coming every single night, her dream self did not. She would find herself fixed to the floor, body rigid and legs immovable, and from this sculpture position she would be forced to watch as her child, her _baby_ , fell into the ice before her, trailing slowly under the surface until the entirety of him had gone.

And that was one of the better endings. Sometimes it happened quickly, but other times, the nightmare would drag on for what felt like hours. Rather than escaping her sight under the ice, when her subconscious decided to really punish her, she'd be front and central to a dragon massacre. Sometimes, the spear would split him in two, and she'd scream silently into an abyss as his body parts fell around her. Sometimes, the blood was all she saw, drenching her skin, her eyes, her gown, and she'd taste the metallic notes on her tongue. Sometimes, worst of all, she would watch him come back to life, and hope would paw at her stomach until she woke, out of breath, reliving the realisation that one of her children was dead.

It wasn't getting any easier.

It took her a moment to realise that although she'd woken with the pain of her loss, this time, she wasn't alone. Jon Snow lay beside her, crotch covered by the bedding but little else, and her heart, so full of grief, seemed to flip at the sight of him.

What a night it had been.

He stirred, then, his body twitching, his arm sleepily searching the bed for her. Dany was too tired to overthink anything, and as his fingers made contact with skin, she shuffled up beside him, laying a hand over the scar across his chest.

-x-

Though usually an early riser, Daenerys found it much more of a struggle to force herself out of bed with Jon all but mounting her in his sleep. It took her a moment to adjust to the light, but once she could manage to look around her quarters without yawning, she found herself rolling her eyes with a small smile. He was fast asleep, but that hadn't stopped him from curling his entire body around hers, holding her against him as if she was a prisoner to his body.

 _Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing…_

His hair was splayed across her pillow, no longer fastened in a makeshift bun, his breath tickled her ear and made her shudder in delight, and unsurprisingly, she could feel a constant pressure at the base of her spine, something hard, throbbing, and much bigger than she'd dared to expect (he was short, and she'd spent too much of her time worrying about that).

She knew it would only take a moment to continue where they'd left off the night before. One shift of her body, one flick of a finger, and she'd have Jon begging for her to carry on.

Unfortunately, a knock on the door put an end to any indecent thoughts she may have had.

"Your Grace, we're waiting for you until we eat breakfast." It was Tyrion who was summoning her today, though rather unlike her Hand, he sounded uncertain, as if he'd thought better of waking her.

"Thank you, I will be there shortly," she called back, eliciting an unhappy murmur from the man in her bed.

"There is also…" Tyrion cleared his throat on the other side of the door, and Dany found herself annoyed at his sudden embarrassment. This wasn't the first time he'd been told to fetch her when she was in a state of undress.

"Yes?"

He coughed again. "Please tell Lord Snow that it appears we left one of his crates behind, and- Never mind, Your Grace, it can wait."

The colour drained from her face in time with the echo of Tyrion's steps.

"At least I don't have to keep this a secret; I'm not so good at lying." Jon sat upright beside her, adjusting himself so that he was propping the blanket up like a tent, rather than digging against her back. She could hear the smirk in his voice at having been caught out, and in an instant, any good feeling she'd woken with dispersed as quickly as it had begun.

"Get dressed," she ordered, and ignoring his hand that shot out to grab her own, she padded along the wooden floor to her clothes, knowing with strong certainty that Jon was watching her exposed body as she did so.

"Dany-"

" _Daenerys,_ though in your case, I'd prefer _Your Grace_."

She regretted it as soon as she'd said it. Still completely naked, she looked back at him to catch his reaction, of which she completely deserved.

Though she'd never admit it, she and Jon Snow were very alike. Both built walls around themselves, only lowering them when completely comfortable, and she had the displeasure of watching his go back up. The smile on his lips disappeared into a thin, emotionless line, and the shine in his eyes seemed to distinguish like a flame drenched by rain.

"Apologies, Your Grace." He plucked his discarded clothes from beside the bed, all playfulness lost from his posture. "I shall see you at the breakfast table."

And like that, he was gone, leaving only the scent of him on her skin and in her hair.

This was another reason she disliked the water; there was nowhere for any of them to hide.

-x-

Back when she was Viserys's pet project, Dany had always prided herself on being punctual. Whether they were meeting with a wealthy merchant or a crackpot convinced they were related, she had always insisted on arriving to their appointments early to make the best possible impression. Though the circumstances had changed somewhat since those days, Daenerys still did her best to be on time, even if her position afforded her the luxury of arriving a little late.

Today, she was milking it for all she had. An hour and a half after Tyrion had first summoned her for food, she joined the rest of her council, noting with a tinge of guilt that they'd all refrained from eating until she'd taken her first bite. Missandei was the best at dealing with the occasional royal mishap, and without a word, she took to pouring Daenerys a cup full of fruit juice, smiling when Dany thanked her.

"It's cranberry, Your Grace, a delicacy in King's Landing."

The taste was a little tart for her palate, but she drank it nonetheless, being careful not to appear ungrateful.

Smoked fish was to be their breakfast for as long as they travelled, and already, she was sick of the smell of it. Ever the diplomat, she carefully took a mouthful and nodded in the general direction of them all, though she had no idea who had been burdened with the task of cooking.

"Delicious."

Forks reached mouths, finally, and a few moments passed before anyone seemed to look up from their places.

"Not at all burnt," added Tyrion, who stifled a chuckle that he hid under a cough.

"This is the way me ma always used to make it," said Davos with a sniff, though he too seemed to be having difficulties getting it down. "Though truth be told, I never really paid much attention to how she did it."

"I've had worse." Jon's voice sent a shiver of guilt down the back of her neck, and though she had so many questions to ask him (what could possibly be worse than the charred fish in front of them?), he was quick to make his excuses and leave. Davos seemed oblivious, Missandei was engrossed in a book that her Hand had lent her, and Varys was unreadable as ever. Only Tyrion seemed to react to Jon's departure, though she knew he was smart enough (and kind enough) to wait until they were alone before he spoke his thoughts.

"If you don't mind me asking, Your Grace, what are your plans for today?" Varys leaned forward in his seat as he pushed his plate of uneaten fish towards Davos. "I appreciate that there is little we can do on the move, but it may be beneficial to hold a war council of some kind, to plan ahead for when we arrive."

For a moment, Daenerys forgot about Jon, because the word _war_ seemed to turn her entire body to ice. Everything felt cold, everything seemed to slow to a halt, and without any prompting, the Night King dominated her thoughts, his eyes burning into her subconscious as if to challenge her.

 _War_. It was something she knew was coming, something she'd prepared for with armies and allegiances and advisors who spoke of weapon numbers and breast plates and casualties. And yet it had seemed such a distant worry, something that they were forever preparing for, something that never arrived. Not only that, but Dany had anticipated going to war with humans, not the living dead; she felt out of her depth having to initiate war plans against an army of wights.

"How about we do that tomorrow?" Tyrion's voice woke her out of her day dream. "It's not as if we're pressed for time, and there are a few things I need to discuss with the Queen before we reconvene for burnt fish part two."

She nodded. "Very well. Please allow myself and Lord Tyrion some privacy." Once the rest of her council ( _friends_ , she added mentally) had left them to it, she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow with a wrinkle of her nose. "I hope the fish comment was a joke."

He laughed, a sound she didn't often hear, and gave her a mirthful shrug. "Who knows? Though it wasn't _completely_ awful."

"I thought you a better liar than that." She readjusted her position, crossing one leg over the other while Tyrion watched, his face blank. He wasn't giving anything away, which meant she'd have to breach the subject herself. "How did you know Jon was in my room this morning?"

He had the sense to look ashamed, if only for a moment. "Ah, so we're delving straight in."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I saw him knock on your door last night." He picked up a cup that had little in the way of juice inside, and pretended to drink. Daenerys remained silent. For all his confidence (and he had a lot for someone so small), she'd become accustomed to his ways. When he was uncomfortable, or out of his depth, she'd noticed that he liked to keep his hands busy, whether that was pulling at a stray thread, or clasping his fingers around a goblet. "I didn't want to assume that he'd stayed for the duration of the night, so I went to his quarters this morning to check." He stiffened. "That's not to say I was checking up on you, Your Grace, but Davos had come to me very concerned about the missing cargo, and I'd promised to pass on the message." He stopped, resulting in a silence that seemed to cling to the air like a fog.

"And?"

He cocked his head like a dog unable to understand a command. "Are you asking for my opinion?"

"Don't you usually give me your opinion, whether I want it or not?" Dany knew she was playing it a little harshly for their first morning on the waters, but any control she'd had over the situation with her and Jon had been lost as soon he'd been spotted joining her. She'd barely had time to consider what any of it meant (especially the way Jon had looked at her, both during and after), and having Tyrion in on their secret made things even more complex.

"Your Grace-"

"Do you disapprove, Lord Tyrion?"

He faltered, still fondling the empty cup, though his eyes didn't leave her face. "I don't think it's my place to disapprove of the people my Queen chooses to take to her bed." He cleared his throat. "I told you from the beginning that I like Jon Snow, so if he's to take Daario's place, I can think of worse choices."

Tyrion knew he'd said the wrong thing as soon as Daenerys's nostrils began to flare. He stood up and started slowly backing away from the able, managing a half bow as he did so, though it didn't stop her from slamming a fist onto the wood with all but a growl. "If he's to take Daario's place?"

"Your Grace, my apologies, I didn't mean to offend you, I merely-"

"Leave."

There was no arguing with her tone of voice. With another bow, Tyrion left her to her own devices, her hands balled on the table, her nails digging into her skin.

She was a _Khaleesi_ , a queen, and if she were to take fifty lovers into her bed, it still wouldn't be anyone else's business.

Unless it affected their long-term goals, she supposed, and like that, her anger seemed to cool until it was a low simmer. Jon was the North's appointed king, made so by its people, so of course there would be complications if they turned up at Winterfell, hand in hand. Except was that what she even wanted?

If she was being completely honest with herself, she hadn't expected him to turn up at her door, and since that moment, it had all happened incredibly fast. She'd missed sex, she wasn't going to deny it, but it had been more than that somehow. Jon had lavished affection upon her, his kisses urgent, needy, full of something she couldn't place, and she'd welcomed it all, had gasped his name as he rode her to near tears, had laughed when he tickled her with his facial hair, had sighed as he wrapped his arms around her and whispered her name until she fell asleep.

But what did any of that amount to? A crush she had on an unknown entity? A way to pass the time?

 _Not for him._ She felt ashamed of her earlier behaviour. Whatever dilemmas she faced, she had seen it in Jon's eyes, that same look given to her by countless men, a look she'd never been able to return. Drogo, his gaze had been full of lust, of power, and she'd fallen under that spell. Young, naïve, and enchanted by the world around her, she'd believed herself to be in love with him, until she'd seen enough love in others to know it had been something different altogether. She'd cared for him, had mourned for him, but it hadn't been love. She'd loved her unborn child, just as she'd loved her baby dragons, but she hadn't loved Drogo.

Jorah's love had begun as a need to protect her, and over time, she'd seen it progress and develop into something more powerful, something that she hadn't felt for him. She loved him, of course she did, but it wasn't the kind of love he deserved. He had been a friend, a confidant, an advisor, but never someone she wanted by her side, holding her hand and ruling her heart. So many days she'd spent, willing herself to feel it, to give him what he wanted, but it hadn't happened.

She'd assumed Daario didn't even know how to love. He was attractive, she needed companionship, and the two of them had used one another for their own devices. She cared whether he lived or died in the same way she cared for Missandei, for Grey Worm, but once again, she'd seen it etched on his face, and had known then that their arrangement had to come to an end.

Jon Snow was in love with her; she would have bet the war on this statement. For all the confusion surrounding his motives, she'd seen it in the way he smiled at her, hovering above her in the dark, the smallest of smirks that she knew had been reserved just for her.

She needed to make things right.

Her feet may have felt heavy, and her heart may have been in her throat, but Daenerys made the journey to Jon's quarters; reminiscent of the previous night's events, she knocked on his door and held her breath.

"Your Grace." He swung back the door and let her inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the delay! More angst ahead because Jon Snow knows nothing (it's a good thing that Daenerys likes a challenge).**

Before his new queen had requested an audience with him, Jon had been doing what he did best; brooding. Brooding passed the time, he found, and it wasn't as if he didn't have various topics to choose from.

The Night King.

Cersei.

Uncle Benjen.

The general death and (almost) destruction of his family.

Daenerys Targaryen.

Plenty of things to keep him busy.

Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to jump on a horse and sit in front of a weirwood tree for the foreseeable, he was stuck on a boat with the Mother of Dragons, which not so long ago, he would have been pretty fucking happy about.

Now, less so.

His thoughts wouldn't stay in one place. Part of him was telling him it was okay to take a lover because he was no longer a Crow, no longer bound by oaths and vows. Part of him was telling him he'd made the worst mistake possible by bedding the woman he'd needed as his ally, because if push came to shove, the loss of her armies was going to be a devastating blow. Part of him couldn't get over the fact that she'd willingly accepted his advances (and had on more than one occasion taken control of the situation in a way that made his head spin), only to dismiss him the instant the night was over.

He didn't understand women at all.

His stomach rumbled, adding insult to injury. Despite keeping a brave face at the breakfast table, Jon had eaten little of the fish on offer (partly out of dislike, partly to punish himself for whatever mistake he'd made), and he hadn't thought to hide edible rations in his own belongings, leaving him hungry, as well as miserable.

How far was White Harbor again?

The wait for Daenerys to make an appearance at breakfast had been excruciating. For that brief, blissful moment after Tyrion had made it known that he was aware of the queen's company, up until she'd dismissed him from her room, Jon had felt considerably positive about things. Lying definitely wasn't his forte, his father had made sure of that (which is why he had often wondered where Arya got that particular talent from), and though he didn't know Tyrion as well as he would have liked, he'd surmised that he wasn't the type of person to hide important information from. Jon had understood that announcing it to the rest of them might be a little uncomfortable, especially since he was still technically the newcomer, but the 'meet my new lover' speech would be worth it, considering who his new lover was.

 _You really do know nothing, Jon Snow._

A knock on his door snapped him out of his thoughts before he could begin to add the death of Ygritte to his list of things to feel bad about. He'd expected Davos, or even Tyrion, but he found himself taken aback at the sight of Daenerys.

His Queen.

"Your Grace." He stepped aside to let her in, and cast a quick look across his quarters to make sure it was tidy enough for her presence.

"I came to see how you're faring after breakfast." There was the smallest of smiles on her lips, he noted, but Jon couldn't find it in him to smile back.

"It was edible, and it was sustenance. You come to find that in times of hardship, it doesn't matter what you're eating, so long as you can survive long enough to your next meal."

"Ever the ominous one." She took a step towards his bed, as if silently requesting him to take a seat, but he remained standing. "I came to…" Her gaze hardened, her jaw tight. "I came to apologise, Jon, for my earlier actions."

In that moment, he knew there were two ways the scene in front of him could play out. He didn't need to know her well to sense that apologies came rarely, to know that she was taking a big personal sacrifice in admitting she'd acted in the wrong manner. This would be the part when he'd take off a glove, place a finger to her lips, and tell her that she had nothing to be sorry for. She'd look at him with those large, enchanting eyes, he'd allow himself to smile, and then the world would stop around them as their bodies came together in a mix of love and passion.

Except he was going to take route two. His heart wanted one thing, had got its wish the night before, but it was time to think with his head again. He had to remember his place, his mission. He had to remember that no matter how he felt, Daenerys didn't want him in the same way he wanted her.

"We both acted on impulse," he finally said, doing his best to keep his face free of emotion. "I've let myself become too familiar with you, and I should be the one apologising. You're my Queen, and I overstepped the mark."

There was a flash of surprise on her features, he noted, though he didn't let himself dwell on what that meant. He'd seen and done a lot of things in his time, had even bested death, so staying strong in front of this woman would be easy in comparison.

"Sit down." Her voice commanded respect. He'd seen the effects it had on those around her, had even felt the effects on himself, but this is where some of the problem resided; he was still his own man. He'd declared her as his queen, there was no going back from that (and he didn't want to, awkward post-sex feelings aside), but he could still make his own decisions. Instead of immediately doing as she said, he gritted his teeth, remaining where he stood. She let out a small sigh, and the harshness from her voice seemed to soften. "Sit down. _Please."_

He nodded, and sunk onto his bed, perched on the edge in case he felt the need to stand in outrage. In turn, Daenerys sat beside him. Her hand seemed to hover in the air for an elongated minute, as if she were contemplating placing it on his knee, but it soon found a resting place in her lap.

"I'm used to getting my own way," she stated, so matter of fact, no apology to follow. "That may give the impression that I'm a spoilt child, but this is because I've worked to make my goals a reality." Her eyes seemed to burn into his, and as much as he wanted to look away, he couldn't. "How much do you know of me, of where I came from?"

Jon furrowed his brow. "Admittedly, Your Grace, not enough. Targaryens have a bit of a mixed reception in the North, and the news that drifted to the Wall over the years was often exaggerated." He shook his head with a sad laugh. "I remember one of the stories that claimed you were part dragon yourself. There was talk that you had scales covering you from head to tail, and that all of your clothes had to be altered when you started growing wings."

Daenerys looked over her shoulder as she patted herself with a hand. "I haven't noticed any yet, but I'm sure stranger things have happened." She smiled a little. "My only living brother, Viserys, he was my last of kin, and as such he had a large part in raising me. He was of the mindset that he would be on the Iron Throne someday, and that he could use me to get there. When I was young, I felt powerless to his demands, so I went along with them. What else could I do? There was no one else to look out for me, and no matter how cruel and bitter he may have been, he was still the only family I had left, and I loved him, despite his many, many flaws."

"I'm sorry." It was Jon's turn to feel like he needed to touch her, his hand desperate to find hers, but he didn't. He instead shifted a little on the bed, closing the distance between them, if only slightly.

"Don't worry, I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. Our past makes us who we are now, and I don't take that for granted." She absentmindedly touched one of the braids in her hair, as if to recount its origins. "When I married Khal Drogo, it was a different situation, but a similar experience. He used me for his own needs, and at the start, I accepted my fate. Time made me stronger, _experiences_ made me stronger, and after a while, I made things happen without relying on anyone telling me what I could and couldn't do. I've grown used to getting my own way." She tilted her head, eyes focused on the view of the water from the small window in Jon's room. "I was told that the Dothraki would not travel across any body of water, and yet here we are. I was brought up on stories of the extinction of dragons, and yet here we are. I started as a girl with nothing…" She turned back to look at him, eyes searching his. "And yet here we are."

"Here you are."

She paused, and all Jon could hear was the drumming of blood in his ears. "I was caught off guard this morning. As a Queen, a Khaleesi, I've become accustomed to being in control of most situations, and I don't take kindly to having that control relinquished. I know this may sound cold of me, but you have to understand; I'm used to having the power. When Lord Tyrion made it clear that he was aware of our situation, it left me feeling… _vulnerable."_ She shuddered, drawing her cloak in tighter around her body, and Jon could see it in her, that young, helpless girl that she used to be, the girl under her brother's thumb, even if the moment passed in an instant. "You and me, this is no one's business but our own."

"Because you're ashamed?"

Her cheeks flushed in time with his. "No. Because nothing is my own anymore. I have accepted that being their queen means sharing myself unconditionally, giving them everything I have, but it doesn't leave me room to keep some of it back for myself. I'm still trying to process… this, _us_ , and it feels as if that's been taken away from me before I've had chance to understand what's going on."

He nodded once. "Was it a mistake?"

The question hung in the air for longer than Jon was happy with. The room felt stuffy, unbearably so, and the longer she remained silent, the more he could feel himself pulling away. Her story, her actions, they made sense, but they didn't help soften the blow, and he felt sick to his stomach for acting the way he had.

He'd let his heart get the better of him again.

As a boy, he'd never given much thought to love. He'd always dreamed of joining the Night's Watch, of making his father proud, while Robb dreamed of slaying enemies and owning a castle. When Sansa would ask if he'd grow up to marry a beautiful lady, his older brother would scoff and retch, claiming girls to be repulsive.

" _I'd rather marry Old Nan."_

And yet as adolescence hit, Jon had seen the change in him. Robb would almost strut like a fancy bird when young women were around, beaming when they giggled and swooned, and some nights before bed, he would do nothing but talk about his latest crush of the month, regaling Jon with over exaggerated stories of their beauty.

As tragic as it was, Jon had taken comfort in the fact that Robb had died a married man, that he'd finally found a woman to give his heart to. He'd been happy, he'd had a reason to live, and it had eased his pain in the dark hours of the morning when he couldn't think of anything other than his brother's face.

Ygritte had been an accident. He'd broken his vows for the betterment of the Watch, he'd told himself that a hundred times over, but he had no excuses for having fallen in love. It had happened unexpectedly, had ended just as so, and as he'd held her in his arms, watching the life drain from her body, he'd known then that he wasn't his brother; he wasn't going to have a happily ever after (if it could even be called that).

That was why this situation stung even more. He'd fallen in love for the second time, having convinced himself that it would never happen again, and he'd made things ten times worse by acting on it. Unrequited love, he could have handled that from afar, but knowing how she tasted, the softness of her skin, what noise she made when he brought her to the edge… He would never be able to forget that. Eventually he would have to watch her sit on the Throne, another man by her side, those memories burned into his soul forever, because what did she have to gain from Ned Stark's bastard?

"It wasn't a mistake." Her response seemed to take an eternity, but it did nothing to make Jon feel any better. "I don't regret what happened, neither am I ashamed of it. It's just that, in hindsight, I wish I'd handled the situation differently." She finally stood. Smoothing down her clothes, she clasped her hands together and nodded. "Today, we all have a free pass. Tomorrow we will begin planning our strategy for when we arrive in the North." She began walking towards the door, and as her fingers met the handle, she turned back to look at him, though Jon was intently watching his boots. "Come to my quarters tonight, when everyone has gone to bed. I'll show you then that last night wasn't a mistake."

And then she was gone. Jon fell back onto his bed, let out the deepest of sighs, and cursed himself for the blood that instantly ran south at the idea of spending another night with the blonde.

 **-x-**

The day passed uneventfully. Davos disturbed him mid-afternoon to offer bland biscuits and a card game he'd learnt in Flea Bottom, and dinner consisted of a mixture of greens that had already began to wilt. Jon had taken a kind of guilty pleasure in watching Daenerys force the food down, because for all her bravado, he found her reactions easy to read; she wasn't enjoying the limited cuisine. Still, he smiled when she smiled at him, he laughed at Tyrion's amusing stories, and he acted surprised when Missandei admitted that she was missing a certain member of the Unsullied. The mismatched individuals shared a drink or two until candles needed to be lit, and one by one, they dispersed to their beds in preparation for a day of tedious planning ahead of them. Jon didn't hang around this time. As Davos bid the Queen a good night, he too did the same, noting the hidden invitation on her lips as she wished him the sweetest of dreams.

He'd already made his mind up. As much as he wanted her, and as much as he was in love with her, it would be easier on both of them if he remembered why he was there in the first place. Repeating this in his head until he was sick of his inner voice, he retired to his own space, locking the door before sinking into his bed, alone.


End file.
